Several months previous to the party that got us evicted, Marty and Monty had sprung on a new concept.
‘Mannequin stealing,’ Marty told me. He had smoked so much that his eyes were thin like coins. ‘That way, there’s always someone to party with.’ To make sure we didn’t forget his idea, Marty wrote a note and pinned it to his bedroom door.
‘Steel maniquins to be frends.’
I woke the next morning and saw the sign and laughed. Anything that furthered our general theme—Fight for the Weekend—passed for art in our household.
After a week the note and concept sunk into the backdrop—much like the beer bottles on the coffee table and the barf stains on the rug. In general I didn’t remember anything that didn’t come up and bite me in the ass, not unless it stood five foot six and went by the name of Helen Stone.
Rabble Rouser 